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My phone went missing; we’d made a fruitless search for it over ten precious morning minutes. “Call me,” I instructed my eldest, who recently received an “emergency” cell phone from her dad, which she’s used only a few times to ring from her bedroom to inquire about the status of supper. “Call me and we’ll see where it rings.”

In a normal house, perhaps the couch would have rung. Or the floor next to the couch. Or maybe a purse, or beneath a carelessly flung sweater, or the front seat of the mini.

What rang in my house? The bottom of the laundry basket, piled twice its height with unfolded clothes. “How do you imagine my phone got in there?” I asked the sheepish faces before me.

I got no answer, not that I’d expected one. And perhaps that’s for the best.

******

Turning the volume up to 8 works to drown out most of the back-seat chatter and screams as we run the morning carpool and errands. “Go faster, Mommy!” screams the little girl. “Faster! Faster!”

I ignore her, as we’re in town and approaching a stop sign. “Watch out for that lellow truck!” she shrieks, referring (I deduce) to the truck in the opposite lane two blocks ahead of us. “Stop sign, Mommy! Stop! Stop!”

I stop and turn the volume dial just a bit higher. “What’s this song, Mommy?” the girl asks.

“Ba-n-bis-kit,” says her brother without the least bit of hesitation.

I can’t keep him from eating puzzles (and books, carpet fluff, sand, flowers, loose threads from his shirt and the odd bug), but he’s already pretty proficient at song recognition.

******

We’re home again, and the little ones dart into and out of the bathroom without ceasing. As soon as I pull one away, the other slips back in. I cannot tempt them out, not with games, nor treats, nor promises of cartoons.

Finally I call over a child. “Why are you in the bathroom?” I ask in frustration.

She leans over with the air of a master imparting a great secret to her novice. “Miley Cyrus,” she whispers. “Miley Cyrus in baf-room.”

Only a monster would argue with this logic. If Miley Cyrus is in the bathroom, how could I possibly keep the children out?

******

It’s ten minutes before bedtime, and things have degenerated to the point that the boy is systematically denuding the printed faces off his puzzle pieces while his sisters race around in their underpants.

I wouldn’t much mind the racing (once again I take puzzle pieces from my ravenous boy), but as they streak past I notice something. They each have something slender and black protruding from their undies.

No, they’re not sporting these, I’m relieved to find out when I slow them as they dart past. They’ve got remotes shoved down the front of their pants.

“Would you get the remotes out of your underwear!” I demand. “And stop eating the puzzles!” I snap at the boy, who has scrounged a puzzle piece from beneath the couch.

******

This comprises but a small fraction of a typical day in my house. I have the joy of living with lunatics.

Impossibly cute lunatics.